The Caller (37 page)

In the infirmary, Ruarc was raving, struggling in the grip of his two comrades while Toleg tried to get a draught down his throat. Scia was stitching up a knife wound in an Enforcer’s arm, a job Toleg would usually have done. Her patient sat stoically as she performed her meticulous work, but his gaze kept darting to the tormented Ruarc. There were seven other men waiting in the hallway, one of whom was Brenn.

I gave him a quick greeting before I went in; no time for more. I put the herb basket on the bench. In the stillroom, I stowed my cloak and staff. I took off my shoes, which were soaked from the river crossing, and put on the indoor slippers I had acquired from the household collection of cast-off clothing. I took a few deep, slow breaths. Ruarc was sobbing now; the sound made me want to weep along with him.

‘Scia,’ I said as I came back into the infirmary, ‘I’ll use the stillroom; that will make it quicker to see everyone.’ And further from those terrible noises from the damaged Ruarc, but not far enough to shut them out. If he survived, he would be forever changed. Perhaps he’d be like that young man I had met in the Rush Valley, the one enthralled against his will, a lost child in a strong man’s body. There was a question over Ruarc’s long-term care. Thus far, we’d avoided talking about it.

Scia glanced up from her work and nodded. She looked drawn and weary. ‘Galany of Bull Troop is next,’ Scia said.

Brenn and I exchanged a somewhat forced smile as I called Galany through, leaving the stillroom door open for propriety. My meagre personal possessions were stowed under the pallet; I kept the place scrupulously tidy, as much for my own satisfaction as Toleg’s.

‘Wrenched my back,’ Galany told me. ‘Heavy blow to the shield arm, caught me off balance; should have been more careful where I put my feet.’

He was in a lot of pain; I felt carefully up and down his spine and saw him trying not to flinch when I touched the sore spot.

‘I can give you a draught for the pain. You’ll need rest. Don’t move about too much or lift anything too heavy until it feels better.’

He half-smiled and got up as if to leave.

‘I’m serious.’ I gave him my sternest look. ‘Unless you want this to get worse every time you take a knock of that kind, you need to give it long enough to mend.’

‘How long?’

‘As long as it takes. At least three days of complete rest, and then only light duties until you’re not feeling pain.’

That little smile again. ‘New here, aren’t you? We don’t ask for time off. Just give me the draught. It’ll dull the pain for a bit. That’s all I came for.’

Clearly my sternest look was not stern enough for an Enforcer. ‘Tell your troop leader that unless you rest this injury, you’ll soon be unfit for active duty. Yes, I am new, but Toleg would say exactly the same thing.’

Both of us glanced through the stillroom doorway to where Toleg was now seated on the edge of Ruarc’s pallet, peering into the injured man’s eyes. One of Ruarc’s comrades held him still with an arm around his shoulders; the other was dipping a cloth into a bowl, ready to wipe his tear-stained face.

‘That was a fine man,’ muttered my patient.

‘He still is.’

‘Not much left of him, poor bastard. As for telling the troop leader I need a rest, I am the troop leader.’

‘Oh. Then tell . . .’ Tell the king?

‘Just give me the draught, lass, and get on to the next man, will you?’

So it went on, with Scia tending to one man in the infirmary while I looked after another in the stillroom. My final patient was the man my companions knew as Morven, my husband. I was too tired to think straight, and nearly called him Brenn. I hardly knew whether to show concern or pleasure that he was here.

‘Anything serious?’ asked Scia, who had just sent her last patient off with a salve for his severely bruised toe – he had insisted on putting his boots back on, grunting with pain as he did so.

‘A boil,’ Brenn said. ‘Simple enough to fix, I expect. Only it’s on . . . er . . . a delicate part of the anatomy.’ He glanced around, his eyes passing over Scia, who was tidying the work bench, and Toleg, still with Ruarc. ‘Prefer not to pull my trousers down in front of an audience.’

‘I’ll deal with it,’ I said. ‘Come through to the stillroom.’ A boil was easy; I’d lance it first, then apply a poultice. Since I’d have to make that fresh, we should have some time to talk. ‘Scia, I’ll spare Morven’s blushes by closing the door, but just knock if you need anything. Could you pass me that little knife, please?’

He did, in fact, have the beginnings of a boil. I was beyond being embarrassed by such things, and made him lie face down on the pallet while I tended to it. We spoke in murmurs.

‘What happened to Owen Swift-Sword? I was walking past when he shouted at Brydian.’

‘Hauled off to account for himself to the king. That can’t be good. There were some mutterings in the troop; they’re loyal to Owen, even though he’s a man who likes to go his own way. Rohan took charge. But the word is Wolf Troop will be given the job of training now, and Stag Troop will get guard duty. The men aren’t happy about any of it. Everything was going smoothly until the king arrived.’

‘Shh, keep your voice down. Brenn, I went up to the forest. Tali and the people from Shadowfell are on the way down the valley. And our allies among the Good Folk will be ready too. I need a good vantage point for the Gathering; I need to make sure I’m not stuck in here when it happens. Somewhere very close, but as safe as possible. If you think of anything, let me know. Have you seen Ean? Silva’s brother?’

‘Ouch!’

‘I’m being as gentle as I can. I’ll just clean this a bit, then it’s the poultice. Awkward spot for a bandage.’

Brenn turned his head, managed a smile. ‘Ean’s training with the rest of them and trying not to show how good a fighter he is. No chance to talk to him privately. Those young fellows are going to be mincemeat in any combat, Neryn. The whole idea’s crazy. Owen has managed to keep them on the sidelines thus far, but that can’t last.’

‘What will they do to him, Brenn?’

He did not answer straight away. I was busy assembling what I needed for the poultice, and had my back to him. But he had heard something in my voice. ‘You and him,’ he murmured. ‘What’s between the two of you?’

‘Nothing.’

‘If you say so. My guess is the king will make an example of him. Whatever punishment Keldec decides on, it won’t be pretty.’

My belly was tight; my throat felt as if it would close up. A flood of tears waited just behind my eyes.
The cause. Think of the cause.
‘What about you?’ I asked. ‘Are you still being trained, and if so for what?’

‘Enforcer training has been more or less abandoned. The seven of us are doing what the rest of Stag Troop does, just without the pretty silver badge. So if the whole troop’s relegated to guard duty, that’s what I’ll be doing.’ A pause. ‘Could be useful.’

‘Will you see him, do you think?’ The question came out despite my better judgement, and my voice shook. ‘Owen?’

‘I don’t know. There’s a place of incarceration here, but I’m not sure exactly where it’s located. Wolf Troop’s special preserve. The Wolves take pride in their work. They may not be so pleased if they’re ordered to hand over responsibility. Of course, if Owen’s locked up in there, the king’s hardly going to want his own troop guarding him. My guess is they’ll use enthralled men to keep this particular prisoner under control.’

‘I don’t suppose we can do anything to help him. But . . .’

‘He’s one of ours,’ Brenn said soberly. ‘And not just any one. I know the rebel code: the cause must always come first. But I’d hate to see Owen Swift-Sword swallowed up by the king’s wrong-headed desire for faster, crueller, showier results before we even get to midsummer. If ever there’s a man who deserves to be present when we declare Alban free at last, it’s him.’ A pause. ‘But you know that.’

His tone told me he had guessed the bond between Flint and me went deeper than that of comrades in the fight, but he held back from saying anything more.

‘You don’t really need this poultice,’ I said, ‘but under the circumstances I’d better apply it for a bit, at least.’

‘Don’t take too long or Scia will be imagining all kinds of things.’

‘All the more convincing. We’re newlyweds.’

Before they’d locked him up, they’d given him a thorough beating. Hard enough to render him unconscious; not hard enough to break anything. His assailants had all been enthralled men. They’d have been given precise instructions, designed to ensure their victim would be fit enough to stand up at the Gathering and face whatever public humiliation his king had in mind for him.

He lay in his barred cell, waiting for whatever might come next. They’d given him water, which he’d vomited back up. He couldn’t stop shivering. There’d been a blow across the face at some point, and his eyes hurt. His body felt disconnected, a jumble of bones thrown at random into a bag. There would be more beatings. He’d seen it all before; he’d watched his own men carry out the king’s orders in precisely the same way. Was Keldec hoping to extract information from him? The interrogation, earlier, had not suggested that. There had been no hint that anyone else was under suspicion; no indication that the king or his advisers knew anything about the coming rebellion. His outburst in the practice yard had been taken as an individual act of defiance. At least he would die knowing he had not betrayed the cause.

If he had been alone with Keldec, he might have told how he’d gradually won the Good Folk’s trust, and how that had seemed the best way to meet the challenge his troop had been set. He might have argued that fear was not the best tool for building a loyal fighting force. But not with Brydian at the council table, cold-faced and hard-eyed; not before the queen’s small chill smile. So he had remained silent, save for the necessary ‘Yes, my lord King’ and ‘No, my lord King.’ If he survived until midsummer, if he lasted so long, then he would speak. Before they finished him, he would make his voice a clarion call for freedom.

It was dark in here. Could it be night already? The pallet was hard and the cell was as cold as the grave. He tried to sit up and felt his stomach churn with nausea. Pain in his belly, in his back, in his neck. Most of all, an insistent throbbing in the skull, behind the eyes. He had been trained to endure; to set pain aside until the job was done. But there was no longer a mission. Not for Stag Troop, and not for its misguided leader.

Why had he done it? Why had he spoken out against Brydian? He had lost comrades before. Over and over, he and his men had laid down their dead friends and moved on; that was the nature of a warrior’s calling. Why had the death of Scorch been different? The big fighter was not even of his own kind; they had known each other less than a season. And yet, this loss had felt worse than all the rest. He had offered the hand of friendship to these folk; he had made them a promise, and in return they had given him their trust, even after all that had befallen them. Even after the long march. Even after the cold iron. They had worked together, played out the intricate moves of combat together, sat around the campfire together. And in the end . . .

He still could not make sense of what had happened. The bout had been routine, king’s men and Good Folk together. Scorch and his two comrades were strong, even without their magical advantages, so he’d pitted each of them against a pair of Stag Troop men. The rules of engagement were clear: back off when ordered to do so. And even if that order did not come – for he and Rohan could not watch all of them at once – back off before serious damage was done.

Brydian must have believed Scorch was out of control, or he would not have ordered Esten to use the quelling call. He had done so behind Flint’s back, with no warning, and in the moment when shock made Scorch freeze in place, a spear had pierced his belly. A wooden spear, since there were no iron weapons on the field; but the damage was done. Oddly, what stayed strongest in his memory was not the big warrior falling to his knees, trying to hold his guts in place, but what came after: himself moving forward to help his stricken comrade, and Fume’s powerful arm coming out to push him away. The furious words, delivered in a bitter undertone: ‘Back off! You’re nae friend o’ his, and you’re nae friend o’ mine.’

He had no right to be hurt by those words – he deserved them. He was troop leader. He had been in charge when it happened. That made Scorch’s death his responsibility. He had seen Brydian and Esten come out to watch earlier; he should have known what could happen. He could have called off the training. He could have spoken to Brydian, requested that Esten make no use of his gift. This lay on his shoulders. Whatever the king had in store for him, it would be no more than he deserved.

Sometime later, as he lay in a restless half-sleep, he heard the bolt slide open on the big door down at the end of the confinement cells. His body readied itself for another assault; the long years of training had their effect, even when his mind was a fog. He breathed deeply, sat up without a sound, tried to focus on the space beyond the bars. His eyes would not cooperate; everything was hazy. He listened instead. The door was closed and bolted again; two men – no, three – spoke in lowered voices along at the guard post. One was Brocc from Wolf Troop. Brocc had not been among those who’d beaten him earlier. But Brocc was an enthralled man, and that made him faultlessly loyal to the king. The second was Galany, leader of Bull Troop. The third was Rohan Death-Blade.